homecomings
by SilverRavenStar
Summary: Post-series oneshot. Abbie takes Ichabod to Oxford for Christmas.


From the moment they nearly missed the shuttle to JFK because Ichabod was arguing with a nearby nine-to-fiver in a suit about the unfairness of the present American legal system, and subsequently sat in traffic with his stare boring into the backs of their heads because of course he was on the same bus, Abbie began to lose her confidence that this would actually work out. This was shaping up to be just as complicated as any of their demon-fighting escapades (not least because Ichabod kept whipping his head around to stare suspiciously at innocent passersby, and it was freaking her out) even though it was supposed to be, for once in their ridiculous lives, _fun. _She had promised Ichabod that she would take him to Oxford for his Christmas present, and was now doing (or attempting to do) just that. But the prospect of loading Ichabod Crane aboard a transatlantic flight with carefully minted but obviously fake ID documents, while getting him to shut up and/or not say something unfortunate at the exact wrong moment, and not being met on arrival by MI6 or Interpol, was one to boggle even a professional.

Fortunately, Abbie supposed, she was nothing if not that. Getting Ichabod a passport in the first place had been hell and a half; she had to invent all sorts of stories about him being raised in a commune and having no official birth certificate or vital records, while he huffed disapprovingly in the background. Since he was so obviously British, she had thought about approaching the consulate in New York City, but then they would ask even more difficult questions, and with Ichabod being unable to provide proof whatsoever that he existed, they would justly get extremely suspicious. It was best to keep this in Sleepy Hollow, where she could exert at least _some _control over it, and with Irving's help, they eventually decided that Ichabod was a naturalized U.S. citizen (he _had_ been in the country since before its actual founding, and for several centuries) who had been born in Britain. (Abbie didn't know if there were communes in Britain, especially in the starchly proper part of Wiltshire Ichabod originated from, and it made her head hurt, but never mind.) That way, they were able to acquire him an American passport, complete with a picture of Ichabod looking like a deer in the headlights, which was perfectly legal insofar as long as you ignored that everything in it was a lie. Nor did Abbie think that her "born with the hippies" cover story was going to fly very far if anyone started digging. Though Ichabod, with his ratty ponytail, predilection for vintage clothing and total disdain for modern life, could possibly pull it off.

Finally, after enduring a backup on the Van Wyck that felt even longer than their promised seven-hour flight, the bus trundled into the bustling departures terminal at JFK, and Abbie gingerly climbed out, tipping the driver as he hauled off their bags (with a particular oof for Ichabod's; as if the place they were going didn't have enough books, the silly man just had to bring along a small library's worth of more). Seeing Ichabod clearly shutting down at all the noise and lights and chaos and armada of angrily honking yellow cabs, she took his arm. "Crane. British Airways ticket counter is this way. Just follow my lead."

Without a smart remark to make for once, Ichabod obediently trailed her into the sprawling chrome and glass labyrinth. They even managed to get checked in for their flight without major incidents, but as Abbie was emerging from the restroom, having dutifully dumped her water bottles, she found Ichabod staring out at the tarmac. "Miss Mills, where are these aircraft we are supposed to take? All I can see are these great ungainly lumbering land vessels."

"Wha – oh. No, those _are _the airplanes. They're just taxiing to and from the gate. They fly, I promise."

"_What?" _Ichabod looked horrified. _"Those? _Oh no, oh no, no, no. I have made a decision. We are going down to the harbor and booking passage on a ship. I don't care about the delay, it is preferable to – "

"No," Abbie interrupted. "No, we are not going on a ship. Come on, Crane. All the freaky shit we've survived, we've literally gone through hell together, and you think I'm trying to kill you by putting you on an airplane? It'll be fine. Here. Fist bump."

Ichabod looked at her with utmost incredulity, but finally sighed deeply and consented to perform the maneuver. He even followed her more or less acquiescently to the start of the security queue – which, this being JFK and the holidays, wound back and forth interminably between ticker-tape barriers, with whining toddlers, businessmen yapping on cellphones, and families of eight who had apparently decided to bring full loads of shopping bags from Macy's and Saks on the plane with them. Ichabod, surveying the situation, finally announced, "This is a madhouse. We'll be stranded here for weeks. I should have brought more food."

"Only if it snows. Knock on wood," Abbie added superstitiously. "Look, we've got three hours before our flight, I planned it this way. Just copy me, remember?"

Ichabod, muttering, did so as they shuffled incrementally forward, finally reached the last turn before the ticket inspector, and Abbie pulled out her passport and boarding pass. Ichabod did the same, but regarded her in bafflement when she knelt down and started taking off her shoes. "Miss Mills, why on earth are you disrobing in public? There are – there are _men _watching!"

"I'm not disrobing, you goon." Abbie rolled her eyes. "Just my shoes. I told you about this, remember? We have to take them off to get through security."

"However in creation would my footwear pose a danger to the public?"

"Aside from the fact that I'm pretty sure you haven't changed those boots since the Washington administration and they're nasty – " Abbie shot a wary look at the checkpoint agent, but he was busy – "it's just the deal, all right? Do it and do not make a fuss here. I'm a cop, but I can't do anything if the feds decide you're up to something."

"I am up to nothing but attempting to take this supposedly relaxing sabbatical with you, and removing my clothing to satisfy this inane notion of proper procedure." Hopping on one foot, Ichabod peeled off one boot and then the other, tucked them under his arm, then strode up to the TSA agent. "Good afternoon, sir. How exactly do you justify enforcing this indecent regime over your fellow citizens, and what, exactly, are you intending to look for in my footwear?"

"Scuse me?" The agent looked at Abbie. "He traveling with you, ma'am?"

"Yes," Abbie said, jamming her elbow into Ichabod's ribs. "I'm so sorry. It's his first time on an airplane, and he grew up on one of those compounds where they do without modern technology, you know. He's kind of clueless."

The agent inspected their papers. "Going to London for business or pleasure?"

"England, yeah. Pleasure. Personal trip. We've got a return ticket in two weeks."

"Hmm. Ichabod Crane, huh? You must have had a fun time on the playground growing up."

Ichabod stiffened. "And preciously what aspersions are you casting upon my good name and my family's honor, sir?"

"He means it's an unusual name, for Christ's sake." Abbie smiled even more brightly at the agent, stepping on Ichabod's foot this time. Out of the corner of her mouth, she hissed, _"Shut up."_

"So, Mr. Crane, you're a naturalized U.S. citizen, but according to this passport and your accent, you were born in the UK. When exactly did you renounce your UK citizenship?"

"I never did, thank you very much!"

"Do you have a British passport you could use to travel on?"

Ichabod snorted. "No, I rather doubt my papers of entry from the first time are still valid."

"Uh-huh. And can you confirm your date of birth for me?"

"The feast of All Souls, God's Year 1750," Ichabod answered promptly.

"Are you being serious right now, Mr. Crane?"

"He means according to their calendar," Abbie butted in desperately. "That's actually November second, 1983."

The TSA agent eyed them for a very, very long moment, ran their documents through the blue light, double-checked the date of birth listed in Ichabod's passport (which did match the one Abbie had given) then finally took out his stamp and approved them, as impatient mutters were being heard at how long this was taking. "Good luck," he said to Abbie. "You're gonna need it."

"Yes, sir. Thank you so much, sir." Abbie grabbed Ichabod's arm and propelled him by force majeure into the screening area, where she pulled off his coat before he had time to protest and stuffed it, along with her laptop and phone, into a plastic tray. "Yours too, Crane. Come on."

Ichabod clutched his smartphone like an overprotective parent. "My mobile device as well? This is really too much."

"Nobody's going to steal it. Just put it in the bin. Good. Okay." At the screening officer's gesture, Abbie walked through the metal detector. "Just like that."

Ichabod eyed the machine evilly. "And what does that do?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. Just go through."

Ichabod huffed, then did so with immense, haughty dignity, though he had to duck. Not quite under his breath, he muttered, "Whatever happened to taking a gentleman's word for it?"

"I know. It's a process. We all have to do it." Abbie caught her tray as the conveyor belt spat it out, and began to reconstitute herself. She checked her watch; they still had time, but should probably be moving somewhat faster than they presently were. "Let's go."

"You do know, Miss Mills," Ichabod said darkly, "that if there _was _someone who wished to do harm, this primitively infantile and demeaning system of pointless humiliation would do nothing to deter them. And that!" He pointed in outrage at an old African-American man in a wheelchair being wanded. "How can he possibly be a threat! Are we all going to stand quietly by and let that elderly gentleman's person be violated in the name of this absurd dictum that random selection equals fairness? Or did they choose him for their racial prejudice against his color, treating him as a slave and therefore less than human? This is barbaric, Miss Mills, simply barbaric, and I will not step aside and – "

"Yes, you will," Abbie hissed, drawing a finger over and over her throat as she noticed that all the TSA officers in the area were staring at them. "Put on your shoes and zip it, Crane. _Now."_

"This is the worst ordeal I have ever endured," Ichabod muttered. "Purgatory included."

"Yeah, well, a lot of people think that about airport security. Come _on." _Despite the size difference, Abbie almost carried him off and onto the concourse. She tried not to think about the fact that he did have a point; supreme evil would definitely not be stopping for security lines, though she had to repress a snort at the idea of Headless dutifully placing pickled head and murder-bandolier into a plastic tub for inspection. Useless as the TSA was, however, even they could probably spot that. But that was over now, had to be, after everything they had fought and suffered and sacrificed. Wanting to take her mind off it, she said, "Hey, you hungry? I'll buy you a Cinnabon."

"I do not want one of your egregiously taxed pastries that – "

"No, you do want a Cinnabon. Trust me." Abbie steered them into line, bought him one and herself a small coffee, then sat him down at one of the plastic tables. She waited until he had bitten off a representative sample size, then said, "Well?"

Ichabod swallowed. "This is. . . simultaneously the most disgusting and the most ravishing thing I have ever eaten," he said in tones of awe, and proceeded to devour the rest of it while barely stopping to breathe. "At least this place has a _few _redeeming qualities."

"See. I knew we'd warm you up to it." Seeing him eyeing her coffee, Abbie held it out. "Sip?"

Ichabod did so, then pulled a face. "Flavorless mess. Are you quite sure that's not just brown water?"

"It's an Americano with an extra shot. This century doesn't boil it black and then chew it out of the pot." Abbie shrugged. "Your loss."

Ichabod harrumphed. "Do they at least have tea?"

"Nothing that you'd think would qualify, I'm sure. Just wait until we get to jolly old England. You'll be right at home."

"I should hope so," Ichabod muttered, then paused. "I suppose it's changed terribly much too, hasn't it."

Feeling a sudden pang of sympathy, Abbie reached out to squeeze his hand. "Come on, soldier," she said gently. "Let's get going."

Wolfing down the last crumb of his cinnamon roll, Ichabod picked up his carry-on (leather man-purse, _very _chic, though of course he was completely ignorant of the effect) and walked with her to their gate. He peered down the jetway at the Boeing 777, made all sorts of skeptical noises, and looked around in disbelief as the waiting area steadily filled with the other passengers. "Are they all going to _fit?"_

"Well, nobody's riding on the wing, I promise." Abbie double-checked their tickets. Just imagining what Ichabod would have to say about the prospect of seven hours crammed into economy, she had sprung for business class; a Westchester County police lieutenant's salary was not going to stretch for two round-trip first-class tickets to London, but this was good enough. Hence as it got dark and the gate agents finally stepped up to announce boarding for British Airways flight 116, service to London Heathrow, they got to go ahead of everyone – which Abbie initially appreciated, but swiftly grew tired of as Ichabod reclined his seat back, up, back, up, back, up, was briefly diverted by the SkyMall catalogue, accidentally pressed the button to summon the stewardess, turned the air vents on and off, and asked her at least a half dozen more times if she was sure this thing was safe. "All right, Crane. Any more of that and I am loading you into the baggage hold, I swear to God."

Miffed, Ichabod desisted from his technological enquiries, paid scrupulous attention to the safety demonstration, and then at last as the plane door closed and they bumped backwards from the gate, grabbed her wrist. He didn't let go the entire time they were taxiing, as they sat in an endless lineup, and then as they finally started their takeoff roll, roaring down the runway and into the sky, closed his eyes and muttered, "Well, I've had a good life, I suppose."

"Don't be ridiculous." Abbie poked him as the endless, glittering checkerboard of the Eastern Seaboard fell away beneath them. "Look down."

"With all due respect, Miss Mills, I would greatly prefer not to." Ichabod kept his eyes tightly shut. "Though do alert me when we are in imminent danger of crashing, as I would like to look upon your face one last time before I perish."

Half annoyed and half flattered, Abbie whacked him on the arm. "Oh, you. You're going to give yourself a heart attack with your melodramatics, and you can't die until you get to London and see all the ugly modern architecture they've added to – "

"Ugly modern architecture? What exactly are you intimating has become of London in my – " At that moment, they hit a few mild jolts of turbulence on their way to cruising altitude, and Ichabod crossed himself. "Oh, dear God. This is the end."

"It's _fine. _That's nothing." Odd as it felt to be babying a grown man through an airplane flight, Abbie got it. Going from horses and ships as the fastest way to get anywhere, to this. . . Ichabod had gotten acclimated to cars just fine, but this was different, and she imagined that if she woke up two centuries in the future and had to take some supersonic rocket or something for transport, she would be justifiably freaked out too. "Here, if you're nervous, just hold my hand, okay?"

Ichabod harrumphed again, but reached out and took her small hand with his large one, folding it into his. "Miss Mills," he said quietly. "Aren't you upset about it? The injustice of the entire process we had to endure, just for the simple task of taking a holiday?"

Abbie considered for a long moment, then sighed. "Look, Ichabod. Here's the thing. I know your time was no basket of roses either, and we've made some progress since then, but I'm a black woman who was put in foster care, who had to go through psychiatric evals after Jenny and I saw Moloch in the woods, who probably wouldn't have gotten into the police academy if Corbin hadn't taken me under his wing, who saw my colleagues of the white and male variety get promotion after promotion while I stayed where I was, who watched Jenny fight every step of the way everything that everyone in the asylum wanted to do to her. . . what you have the leisure to get outraged about, that is just the way I have had to live my life for years. You act like a crazy person at airport security, that's cute and funny and you don't get dragged off by an entire SWAT team with sniffer dogs, they don't shut the whole terminal down. If Luke or Irving did that, say, not so funny. Irving's the goddamn lead detective for Westchester County law enforcement, and he wears good suits and drives a nice car and he still gets pulled over every time he goes to Scarsdale, because that's all they see, a black man. So yes, I suppose I am outraged. Just not at the same things as you."

Taken aback, Ichabod squeezed her hand. "I," he began, then stopped. "Miss Mills. Abbie. I – I apologize."

"It's all right." Abbie sighed again. "Just don't do it in Heathrow on the way home, got it? Your birthday is November 2nd, 1983, you've definitely flown before, and this is old hat. Clear?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand." Ichabod cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm just terribly nervous about this."

"Yeah. And I know you don't just mean the flying." Abbie gave him a small smile. "Now if I promise we won't crash, try to get some sleep, okay?"

"I doubt I shall sleep a wink, but as you command, Leftenant." Ichabod reclined his seat once more and settled back with a muttered comment about the lack of leg room (rather annoying Abbie and the chunk of change she had paid so they wouldn't fly in coach). She eyed him for a moment longer, then reclined her seat as well and closed her eyes.

Abbie had likewise thought she wouldn't sleep, but she must have, because she awoke with pink-gold light falling across her face and Ichabod staring raptly out the window, entranced by the columns of white, puffy clouds gliding by below. Upon seeing she was awake, he turned to her with a delighted smile. "You're right. We're flying. To see the world from beyond the height of even the greatest bird. . . marvelous. Truly marvelous."

"See." Abbie smiled sleepily back at him. "Would I lie to you?"

"Of course not." Ichabod coughed. "Pray excuse me."

"Your lack of faith disturbs me," Abbie intoned in a Darth Vader voice, causing him, yet again, to look utterly baffled (while he had made great strides in his cultural education, she didn't think he was ready for Star Wars just yet). Fortunately, before he could ask, the stewardesses came by to serve morning coffee and distribute customs forms. Ichabod drank several cups without complaint, and was becoming increasingly chatty as they began the descent, runnels of fine mist wreathing the wings. He remained glued to the window, narrating their surroundings, until at last they felt the rumbling roar as the landing gear deployed and they hit the runway. Then he let out an extremely long breath and appeared to relax for the first time in several days.

Once they finally got off the plane and cleared customs, Ichabod was as sprightly as a gazelle bounding through the savannah, while Abbie felt more like a blundering warthog. She stopped off in the bathroom to fix her makeup, waited at the baggage carousel for their suitcases, then navigated them through the maze to the stop for the Oxford bus service. Ichabod was visibly revivifying at breathing the foggy, smoggy London air, being surrounded by people who sounded like him, and when they got aboard the bus and Abbie asked for two tickets to Gloucester Green (being careful to pronounce it the Brit way, "Gloster") he exclaimed, "Gloucester Green? That's still there? In my day it was just a horse-paddock and carriage-rank, I don't suppose it – "

He bit his tongue as Abbie gave him her patented Crane Shut Up About The Fact That You Are A Time Traveler look, as the bus driver glanced at them askew but decided against asking. Once the seats were mostly full, they pulled out and trundled into London, which Ichabod regarded with a mix of curiosity and disdain. "Good God, what is that glass – " he shot a guilty look at her and lowered his voice – "I daresay _phallic object _they have seen fit to disfigure the skyline with? Have they no sense of propriety whatsoever?"

"I think that's called the Shard," Abbie said, amused. "Or maybe the Gherkin, I can't remember. I did warn you that the place looked different."

"Yes, well," Ichabod muttered. "I would have been a fool to expect otherwise, but did they have to make it so. . . _jarring?"_

"London's a world city now," Abbie reminded him. "But there are probably some parts that look like you remember. We'll come down one of the days and look around."

Ichabod was skeptical, but refrained from further architectural critique as they finally fought clear of the traffic and rolled into the green countryside. This seemed to steady his nerves somewhat, and he sat in deep contemplation as the bus made each of its stops. But once they had passed Thornhill Park and Ride and were heading down into Oxford at last, his anxiety returned tenfold. "Ah," he said, sounding choked, as they circled the roundabout and crossed the bridge. "Magdalen bell tower. I recognize that, at least."

Abbie nodded at him encouragingly as the bus continued up High Street, elegant old stone colleges passing on every side, a constant fleet of pedestrians and cyclists under umbrellas (some of them, including the cyclists, were also reading books, which was something she had never seen before) hurrying by on the sidewalks. Then they reached the end of the High and turned down Queen Street, circling back into Gloucester Green bus station, the end of the line. They collected their bags and stepped out; it was a short walk to the Randolph Hotel on Beaumont Street where they were staying, right across from the Ashmolean Museum. Once they had checked in, refreshed themselves, had something to eat, and taken several deep breaths, Abbie said, "Right. Where do you want to go first?"

"I hardly know." Ichabod scrubbed his hands across his face. "I want to see all of it. I recognize enough, but it's. . . it's like a dream. I keep wanting to blink and wake up and it will be as it was."

"I imagine it's weird," Abbie said sympathetically. "Well, I've never been here, you're the expert. Lead the way."

Having fettled themselves with dry clothes and raincoats, they headed out. Ichabod led them down Broad Street to the awe-inspiring Gothic towers of the Bodleian Library, whereupon he was extremely put out on being refused access to the reading rooms and old Duke Humfrey's on grounds that he was a tourist. "I _beg _your pardon! I am no such thing! I am a member of the faculty, thank you very much!"

"Indeed, sir? At which college?"

"Merton." Ichabod swelled indignantly. "A reader of History."

"Do you have your Bod card on you, then?"

"What on earth is a Bod card?"

The librarian stared at them as if not quite sure if this was a practical joke. "What did you say your name was, again?"

"Ichabod – that's I-C-H-A-B-O-D, you provincial illiterate – Crane, so _please _ensure that I am permitted entrance with no further – "

With a look of dudgeon at them, the librarian disappeared, presumably made a few phone calls, and returned looking more disapprovingly British than ever. "Mr. Crane, there is no faculty member by that name at Merton. The only reference they could possibly find was to someone in the eighteenth century, so please leave or I shall be forced to telephone security and have you – "

"Why, you ignorant plebeian, that professor in the eighteenth century was m – " Ichabod winced, hopping on one foot, as Abbie admired the effectiveness of her new shoes. "My. . . several times great. . . grandfather," he finished feebly, eyes watering.

The librarian stared at them a few moments more, then turned away and proceeded with dispatch to help a lost-looking undergraduate. Ichabod was all for sneaking in when her back was turned, but Abbie had a better idea. So they left the Bod and went down the corner to the History Library, where Ichabod eventually managed to talk the curator into believing that they were visiting scholars (Abbie hastily stood up straight and attempted to look like a Ph.D) who needed temporary passes. With these finally secured, they decided to wait until tomorrow morning to try the Bod again, in hopes of avoiding the librarian, and went into the Radcliffe Camera instead, the standalone, green-domed reading room, which Ichabod was delighted to find was almost unchanged. He browsed among the shelves with an openly nostalgic look on his face, until Abbie cleared her throat. "Should I just leave you to it?"

"Ah – no. I'll come back. For today, I'd rather see more." Ichabod carefully put down the book he had been perusing, and followed her back down the spiral stairs. From there, they walked up Brasenose Lane and into the covered market, where they had lunch and he complained about the amount of tacky tourist rubbish available for purchase. "This city used to be a center of _learning, _Miss Mills, not a gaudy hubbub of – "

"Yeah, well," Abbie said, throwing a fry (or "chip" as they were called, chips being "crisps") at him. "The covered market was here in your day too. And the city also used to be a center of Anglican white guys studying dead Anglican white guys. I think we're doing better now."

"Point," Ichabod conceded, looking around at the diverse crowd. "Does anyone really _need _an 'I _Heart _Oxford' accessory made of low-quality Chinese plastics, however?"

"You should know it's not about what people _need, _Crane. Though I'll buy you a cute pair of I Heart Oxford undershorts if you like," Abbie added innocently, just to make him splutter. "Or a hoodie. You need a nice hoodie."

Ichabod was dubious of this proposition, but allowed her to purchase him an Oxford University sweatshirt, which when he put on made him look exactly like any other doctoral student; all he needed to complete the look was a pair of square hipster glasses and an overloaded book bag. "This _is _a rather comfortable piece of clothing, I suppose, but so dreadfully informal. I used to wear robes and _sub fusc _to lecture, don't you think someone will – "

"Nowadays, people only wear academic dress for fancy occasions like graduation," Abbie explained. "Otherwise, yes, they look like this."

With wardrobe alterations complete, they proceeded down the High and out of city centre to Cowley and Iffley Roads, which had not existed in Ichabod's time, and he wanted to examine them. Iffley was mostly quiet and residential, lined with brownstones, bed-and-breakfasts, and corner pubs, but Ichabod was aghast at the sort of commerce that existed on Cowley – Ladbrokes betting stores, "adult entertainment" outlets, pawn shops, used bookstores, ethnic grocers, hair salons, graffitied walls, and a large Tesco's with a lady who came speeding out with an overloaded trolley and almost ran him over. "This is. . . this is _unacceptable! _Whoever allowed this disorder and licentiousness? I want a word with them im – "

"This is modern Britain," Abbie said pointedly. "Welcome to the real world, not the ivory tower."

"An appropriate metaphor, considering that the Hawksmoor Towers of All Souls College were what gave rise to that expression in the first place, but still. . ." Ichabod glared bloody murder at a tattooed chav who was checking out Abbie, and the young man looked alarmed and scuttled away. "And if I find any more individuals unable to keep their eyes to themselves where you are concerned, I shall not answer for my actions."

"Jealous?" Abbie teased, linking her arm through his. It was lighthearted, but the undertone was serious. They hadn't really talked about what was between them now, after the end of things, after Katrina and Abraham and Jeremy with his golem and what it had cost them to stop the apocalypse – just that it was so, that they were the other's second half, bonded through all time and death and love stronger than any word or knowledge. Destinies entwined, indeed. "You know you don't need to be."

"As you said, Miss Mills, it is not about what people _need." _Ichabod tucked her protectively into his side. "Much as I may be forced to accept everything else that has changed, it would be a poor century indeed if a gentleman had no concern for defending a lady's honor and virtue."

"Yeah, well. About that. You know I can handle myself, so just don't take it overboard." Abbie let him rest his arm around her shoulders; this was still about the extent of the public displays of affection he was comfortable with. "We've made some improvements for women since your days. In other things, not so much."

"If you mean all these high-profile cases of vulgar and carnal assault, I think the lot of them should be castrated immediately. Revolting."

"No argument from me there." Abbie took his hand, and they started to walk again. "Do you want to see Merton tonight, or would that be too much?"

"I. . . do want to see it, but you're right, perhaps after a proper supper and sleep. Come, it's getting rather late. Let us see if the Bear is still in operation."

Abbie followed his lead back into downtown and then along Alfred Street, a narrow side lane, where Ichabod was thrilled to discover that the Bear, Oxford's oldest pub, was indeed doing just fine, and that the tiny, low-beamed, dim taproom was likewise as he remembered. They drank stout and ate shepherd's pie as Ichabod waxed poetic about the number of meetings and Political Unions he had attended here, having first come to Oxford in 1768 to study at his father's alma mater, and taking up a teaching post soon after finishing. "They might still have my thesis in the College archives," he said ruminatively, swirling around the dregs of his pint. "It was an examination of the history of the mercantile system, and a commentary on why as a result, the British Empire simply must abolish the slave trade – it being thought that ending slavery would destroy the economic structure of the country, which I took it upon myself to disprove. It was in 1772, the year I took my degree, that Lord Mansfield issued his ruling in the Somersett case – he had a half-African niece, Dido Belle, a most lovely woman. I met her at a ball once." He paused, seemed to remember who he was talking to, and flushed. "Miss Mills, please do forgive my indecency."

"About what?" Abbie said dryly. "Slavery? My great-great grandma picked cotton on a plantation in South Carolina, I'm not going to faint if you mention the word."

"But was she. . ." Ichabod looked anxious. "She _was _freed?"

"No." Abbie shrugged. "I did a trace your ancestry project in middle school. She tried to escape, got caught, and was whipped to within an inch of her life. It permanently crippled her. It wasn't until after the end of the war that her son got emancipated and moved north."

"I. . . forget." Ichabod looked down at the table. "What different worlds we come from."

"So do I, sometimes." Abbie gave him a wry smile. "Anyway. It's not your fault."

"I know, but I still feel responsible." Ichabod downed the last of his drink. "It is times like now when I feel the weight of just how long I have been alive, even if most of it was spent in supernal stasis. To wake up and see the world as it is now, what has changed, and what hasn't. . . I feel _old, _Miss Mills. Obsolete. As if it's true, I don't belong here. That I shouldn't even be – "

Abbie leaned across the table and kissed him.

Ichabod made a noise of complete startlement, one hand drifting up in reflex to push her away, but ending up wrapped around her head instead, kissing for a long, breathless moment before he remembered who he was and where they were, and tried again to pull back, almost succeeding this time. "Miss Mills. . ." he breathed. "Abbie. . . we shouldn't. . . I should. . ."

"Quiet." Abbie touched her forehead to his. "Just. . . don't say that, all right? You do. You belong here. Now. No matter what."

Ichabod smiled at her rather tremulously. "Thank you," he admitted. "I shall do my best."

"Yes. You do that." Abbie sat back, finishing her own drink. "So, let's go find that thesis of yours tomorrow, all right?"

Ichabod agreed, and when they were through with supper, they ducked out into the chilly night and walked quietly, hand in hand, back to the Randolph, where they were sharing a suite but not a room. Yet after she had lain down in the sumptuous bed, looking at the passing lights cast shadows on the ceiling, Abbie was already wondering if it would, or should, be the same by the end of the trip. Felt like time. As if perhaps they had come to his old home to find their new one. Together.

The next morning, they awoke to find that a gingerbread glaze of snow had turned Oxford as pretty as a postcard, and with the Christmas decorations everywhere, Abbie felt as if she had stepped into Ichabod's time herself. After an English breakfast, they stepped out into the crisp, clean, unspoiled morning, and headed down to Merton Street, which was quaint and cobbled and lovely. Ichabod was carrying on about some inconsequentiality or other, when they turned the corner past Christ Church's back gate (Christ Church, the beloved alma mater of toffs the world over according to Ichabod, being the sort of place that required _three _gates) and he stopped dead.

"You all right there, Crane?" Abbie asked after a moment, as they continued to stand in front of the Merton porter's lodge. He hadn't yet made a sound.

Ichabod blew out a shaky breath, tears standing in his eyes. "Well," he said, coughed, and cleared his throat. "Well. I was not expecting that."

"Come on, Professor." Abbie towed him over the threshold, flashed their passes at the porter, and into the main quad. She could see the hungry way his eyes devoured everything as they made their way to the library, the way he kept gulping down unsteady breaths. When they finally got inside, still posing as visiting researchers, Abbie had to request Ichabod's thesis ("Being an Examination of the Mercantile Economy & its History in Europe, considered in Numerous Countries, with an Eye toward Disestablishing the Most Vile System of _Human Chattel Slavery _& its Detrimental Effects in Purportedly Civilised Britain & its Colonies, _by _I. J. Crane, in candidacy for the degree of _Master of Arts_ in History, A.D. 1772") because he was still too choked up. When they had finally gotten possession of it and gloves, warned that they only had an hour to examine the fragile old manuscript, Ichabod was regaining some of his savoir-faire and complaining about the fact that since he had written the damned thing, he should feel entitled to walk straight out the door with it if he pleased. Abbie frantically waved his volume down, warned that it would get him arrested so fast it would make his head spin, and then his time-traveling ass would be in a heap of trouble that she would be powerless to get him out of.

Grumbling, he subsided, and they turned carefully through it. Over a hundred pages, all written in quill and ink – that was something for procrastinating students to consider, next time they were bitching and moaning about an eight-page term paper that they could just open Microsoft Word and type up – and while Abbie couldn't read most of the ornate handwriting, she whistled in admiration. "Damn, Crane. You're really sticking it to the Man."

"Is that a reference I am expected to understand?" Ichabod frowned. "Oh no. Wait, this is dreadful. They're missing a folio. My entire conclusion! The piece is nonsense without it!"

"Accidents happen in archiving, I guess. Don't worry, I doubt this is the hottest read in the entire Merton College lib – Crane? _Crane! _What are you _doing!"_

"What does it look like?" Ichabod snapped, removing his fine fountain pen from his jacket pocket, imperiously uncapping it, and turning over the last sheet of paper to expose its blank back. "I am rewriting my conclusion."

"Crane!" Abbie shrieked. "You are defacing the manuscript, they're going to kill you! Besides, how can you even remember what you wr – "

Ichabod gave her a funny look. "Of course I can remember what I wrote," he said, as if she was asking if he had felt inclined to walk on his hands recently. With that, he turned his attention to his task, completing it in the same elegant cursive as the rest of the work (if they got it checked out, Abbie thought dazedly, even the best forensics specialists wouldn't be able to say it was a forgery) tongue between his teeth as he scribbled. Then he sat back with a sound of satisfaction, blew on the ink to dry it, recapped his pen, and said, "That was most invigorating."

"You're insane," Abbie said weakly.

"No, Miss Mills, you are well aware that I am not." Ichabod reassembled the manuscript as tenderly as if it was a baby, carried it back out, and said bossily to the archivist, "Please do take care that you do _not _lose the conclusion again. I shall be most displeased."

While the poor librarian was doubtless left wondering what on earth had just happened, Ichabod sailed out like a Spanish treasure galleon, Abbie bobbing in tow, and into the fellows' garden, where he flung himself down on a bench and startled a poor unsuspecting don into rapid retreat. They sat there side by side for some moments, watching students have snowball fights in Christ Church Meadow, until he finally let out another long breath. "Do you really think they'll arrest me?" He sounded more diverted by the prospect than anything.

"No idea, but I've had enough of you tempting fate, all right? You're making me nervous, Crane. This was supposed to be relaxing."

Ichabod uttered a small laugh. "Further proving we do not know the meaning of the word, I assume?"

"No, further proving that you're still an idiot," Abbie said tolerantly, scooting closer on the bench and knocking her shoulder with his. "Why do I put up with you, again?"

Ichabod considered her for a long moment. Flakes still swirled out of the silver-grey sky, settling on his hair and hers, their scarves, the place where their hands lay on the bench, fingers entwined. Then he smiled, and the sun came out from behind a cloud.

"Why, Miss Mills," he said softly. "Because I love you."


End file.
